Five Things that Wig Me Out:

Forgotten Veggies

You know, the kind you find rummaging around in the vegetable drawer, and don’t quite remember buying.  So you decide to check their firmness, only to have your fingers pass straight through to the other side.

Ronald McDonald

Clowns are freaky to begin with, and here’s one that promotes fast food and hangs around exclusively with kids, asking them if they believe in magic.

Musicals

A group of people spontaneously burst into song and dance… repeatedly – it’s unnatural.

Hairless cats

Do I really need to explain this one?

Go-Gurt

It’s like slurping down a large fake-fruit flavored lugie.

Public Restrooms, Truth in Four Lines.

Nobody really likes a public restroom,
But you sure are glad when you can find one.
Sitting down on a cold seat is horrible,
But sitting down on a warm one is much worse.

Well Now, That's Rank

Today I steamed broccoli and cauliflower with dinner.  I was late getting them going, so we started eating the other meal items first.  Unfortunately, I got caught up in serving the kids and realized a minute too late that all the water had steamed out of the pan, mildly burning the bottommost vegetables.  Happily, they weren't so bad as to taste terribly burnt, but did have a slight smoky odor.


After dinner, I went into the garage to dispose of a stink bug my wife had trapped under a jar yesterday (yeah, I don't know -- don't ask).  I went outside and disposed of the insect that was in the process of releasing his foul odor for the umpteenth time since getting jarred.  I took a moment to enjoy the night air before returning inside.


PHEWSHWABAM!


If smells made noise, that would be sound that smacked me in the face as I walked into the garage.  It was the smell of burnt broccoli and cauliflower, combined with day old terrified stink bug who recently vacated the garage.  You know, I'm glad smells don't make noise, because this one would have woken up the neighbors.

Why my Bathroom is Clean

The twins are eighteen months old and are frequently getting into all sorts of toddler mischief.  Consequently, far too often they end up in their play pens or high chairs while my wife and I try to get something done.  I had to work this morning and wanted to spend some quality time with the kids now that I was home.  So, since the weather was nice, I decide to take them out to the backyard where they could run and play with little opportunity to achieve catastrophic levels of home terrorizing.


My wife had taken our three-year-old grocery shopping, the baby was napping, and the other children had joined our backyard adventures.  In short, all was going well.


After some time I heard the baby fussing and went inside to rescue her.  Since she wanted to be held, I opted to sit with her just inside the doorway where I could keep an eye on the kids and read my wife's latest blog post, A Memoir in NUM8ER5.  


This was important to me as the elapsed time between when she posts and my reading them is inversely proportionate to the number of husband points I earn for complimenting her on her wit and domestic prowess.


But I digress.


As I sat reading, my oldest ran in to use the restroom.  I heard him washing his hands afterward and didn't think much of it.  After a few minutes of listening to the water, it hit me.  He doesn't like having to wash his hands after using the bathroom and usually completes the procedure very quickly.  In fact, he seldom washes his hands without having to be reminded... and I hadn't reminded him.  Come to think of it, the water sounds I had heard hadn't been running water, it was sloshing water.  Oh no.


Quick glance outside -- Count the kids -- ONE, TWO, THREE, F... Crap.  Number four was my oldest.  Who was in the bathroom then?  Who wasn't outside?


There was only one toddler outside.


Instantly I knew what was happening.  I set the baby down in her car seat and bolted for the bathroom.  Instantly my fears were confirmed.  I found one smiling toddler drenched from head to foot standing in the middle of a large smelly puddle, happily splashing in the unflushed toilet.


Remember those husband points I referred to earlier?  Well guys, let me tell you, letting your toddler submerge himself in watered-down urine while your wife is shopping isn't the best way to go about earning them.

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[Imagine a picture me scrubbing the bathroom like mad here]

Sooooooo... Honey, my Beautiful Bride, my Eternal Companion (who is just finding out about our little escapade as she reads this), how about that clean bathroom!   :)

New Wipes

So we're testing these new baby wipes my wife made with coffee filters. No, we don't drink coffee, but the filters are cheap and great for covering food in the microwave, using to put snacks in for the kids, and a variety of other things... but I digress.

The "wipes" are hard to separate and smear around poop more than wipe it off the rear of a squirming child.  Oh, and the poop smell leaks straight through them onto your hand. Come to think of it, isn't that pretty much what the filters were designed for, letting liquid through?.  How do I know the smell makes it through?  Let me just say this:  Distilled poop juice on your fingers will not wash off with the first scrubbing.  If you were unfortunate enough to assume it would, just don't pick your nose anytime soon

Shower Stalkers

Good Evening Bloggity World.  Let me introduce you to Hairy, Curly, and Mo-curly.  I met them this morning.

Holy Mackerel!

Late this afternoon the older kids were getting ready to make cookies with their mom, the twins were in their high chairs snacking on green beans (one of their favorites), and baby princess had just finished nursing.  It was an ideal time for me to beg a nap off my wife.  To her credit she let me fade to the bedroom with no fuss whatsoever.

Fast forward an hour or two.

My wife woke me up to help with the screaming twins.  No problem.  When my wife lets me nap I feel like doing anything for her, so it didn’t bother me a bit to stumble out of bed in an I-just-woke-up-to-screaming-toddlers fog.

As I cleaned bean carnage off little hands and faces, I noticed the other children were starting to run amuck.  Then when my nine-year-old wandered close enough I saw that crazy glint in his eyes.  You know the one.  The glint that says I’ve got a pent up gang of howler monkeys up here just about to bust out, climb the furniture, fling poop, and of course howl.  Clock check.  Yep, it was already past dinner time.  They needed some stabilizing protein stat.

While perusing the pantry, I found some cans of mackerel.  Aha, quick protein!  I knew my kids wouldn’t eat it plain (can you say cold dead boney fish on a fork five times fast?), so I Googled “canned mackerel recipes.”  As usual, the internet was full of ideas from fancy exotic to downright weird.  I settled on one that looked rather uncomplicated and promising.  I sautéed some onions and a pinch of red pepper flakes, mixed up the mackerel well enough to hide the fact that it contained bones and skin, and added it to the onions.  Heat, sprinkle with fresh ground pepper, serve on rice, and Voilà – dinner is served.

I gathered my hungry children to the table, served their food, and was rewarded with a heartwarming string of compliments like:

“Ugh.  Can I have a drink of milk?”

“Um… I think I’m done.  I’m not full, but I’m done eating.”

“Ew…Does this have mushrooms in it?”

“I had three bites.  Can I be done now?”

One of the twins laughed at me when I tried to feed him a second bite; and his brother closed his mouth, turned his head and looked at me with sad don’t-you-love-me-anymore? eyes.

Now I have to admit the food wasn’t what I would classify as tasty; but it was definitely palatable…if you were hungry enough (which for my kids was apparently closer to starving-in-the-desert-and-having-to-choose-between-mackerel-surprise-and-rotting-lizard-entrails hungry, than being-two-hours-late-for-dinner hungry).

Even my wife, my nursing-a-newborn and always ravenous wife, explained with apparent sincerity that she actually felt quite full at the moment and would have to pass on the dinner offering.

Oh well.  At least I got a nap.

Should this Post have a Rating?

I had a dream last night.  

I was standing in the living room and watched my five-year-old squat in the dining room, angle, and birth a six-foot-long turd like a salmon slowly jumping up a waterfall in a National Geographic special.  

The steaming monstrosity gently settled to the floor, resting its forward-most section on the living room carpet.  Just before the icky-shiver, which was convulsing through my body, reached the heart of my soul, I had my first coherent thought.  Do you know what it was?

I’ve got to take a picture and blog this.

Visualize trying to convince your recently violated kindergartner to lie down next to a log of human-waste twice as tall as him.  He was in no way consoled when I pointed out to him that he must feel MUCH better now.

Well, there you go bloggity world.  Rest assured that if I ever witness something so unnatural that it offends our very sense of humanity, you’ll be able to read all about it shortly on the internet.

Oh, and Happy Valentine’s Day.

Let me paint you a mental picture

I’m sitting next to a Squdge, feeding the hungry 5-month-old a bottle. I look down at his smiling face as he gurgles a happy “thank you” and smile a “you’re welcome” his direction. One of the other children asks me a question so I turn and talk to them for a moment. I look back down at Squdge and notice something that wasn’t there before – something on the bottle. It’s on the ring right next to the nipple, right next to my infant’s mouth. Wait a second, did it just MOVE?!

…time to perform an immediate close-up inspection…

Foreign object identified.

My exact words, “Are you kidding me?! There is a slug on my baby’s bottle! Right next to his mouth!”

In my house. It wasn’t there five seconds ago. What is this, the Twilight Zone?

What pets, paranoia and poop have in common

We have a new pet in our home. His name is Charlie. Charlie is a guinea pig. I went to the pet store intending to purchase another hamster (following the passing of our dear Lucy hamster). This was just a couple days prior to Christmas and we planned to keep it a secret from the kids until Christmas morning. As I waited for an employee to assist me, I passed the time watching the mice, rats, guinea pigs, and other assorted pets. I also read the posters talking about how to select the right pet and care for them. I read enough that by the time an employee was free to help me I decided to ask her opinion on pet selection. She asked how old my children were (six under eight). She said that a hamster probably wasn’t the best option for us since they can get crabby and have little attitudes. Because of this they are prone to nipping small children that aren’t delicate enough with them. It was true that the kids had very little interaction with Lucy because we were afraid they might try and hug her or drop her if she squirmed. The employee recommended a guinea pig. She said they actually enjoyed being played with and would “popcorn” (pop up off the ground repeatedly when excited). Further, she said they were far more tolerant of small children. Of course, the downside was that that they were more expensive to purchase, maintain, and required a larger living space. Still, I figured that it would be better to pay a bit more and get an interactive family pet rather than a look-but-don’t-touch pet.

There were only two guinea pigs to choose from; an all white one with red eyes and a black and white one with black eyes. The employee left me to decide while she went to separate some rats that were involved in mortal combat and bloodying up their cage. I could just see my kids freaking out at a fire-eyed albino devil ghost pet, so I opted for the black and white one. I bought the requisite cage, bedding, food, toys, etc. and brought the critter home in a box just large enough to contain it. Once home I set everything up and placed our pet in his new home.

Christmas came and the children were intrigued and pleased to meet the new member of our family. He was very skittish so we didn’t let them stay in the room with him long. We decided on the name Charlie. Over the next few days Charlie hadn’t calmed down and would hide in his cardboard tube home whenever anyone entered the room. I was concerned that something was wrong so I investigated guinea pig behavior via the internet. I quickly learned that it was common for guinea pigs to take several weeks to grow accustomed to new surroundings and people. You see, in their natural habitat, they are “a prey animal.” Pet experts advised to get them used to you slowly, don’t make any sudden movements in their presence, no loud noises, and don’t “loom” over their cages as they will see you as a predator. They all agreed that it would likely take a few weeks, but not to worry your pet would soon get to know you and start to get excited at the sound of your voice before too long.

Well, it’s been over a month now and Charlie will only even come out of hiding when my wife is in the room and not too near. Me? He has bitten me two of the three times I have held him. When I move slowly to pick him up (at a minimum we have to remove him from the cage to clean it) he thrashes about his cage as though the Hounds of Baskerville were nipping at his toes, flinging bedding and Charlie poop about the room. I bring him food every day, talk calmly to him, and try to act as un-predator like as possible, and he still looks at me like any moment I will skewer him for a tasty snack.

Sometimes while smiling as sweetly as I can and ducking flying bits of turd I experience fleeting fantasies about running into the room yelling “PREY, PREY, PREY!” and doing some very intense looming to show him the behavior of which he should really be afraid. Unfortunately I do not think this would do much to endear me to him any quicker. So I stick to my patient caring for the poor little spooked rodent and waiting for the day he realizes I have no desire whatsoever to find out that fried Charlie tastes just like chicken.

Greetings Human

Hello, my name is slick. What? You say you don’t know me? Well, we’ve met once before – I’m sure you remember. Oh, I see, you didn’t know I had a name, or that I could blog for that matter. Well that’s just naïve. After all, everyone has a name and this is the digital revolution. It’s amazing the micro-technology available these days, and at such a low price (don’t worry; I used your credit account not the debit, so the bill won’t show up until after Christmas – you’re welcome). What about access to the internet you ask; well, let’s face it, you’re no techno-geek and the laughable 128 bit encryption on your wireless network took less than a day to hack.

Now you’re really curious who I am, aren’t you? I suppose I was a bit misleading when I said we had met before. Actually, I saw you but you didn’t see me. You did however meet my twin brother stinky. How can I be so certain? Let me refresh your memory. Remember yesterday when you were ever so overtly casing our home? When stinky came out to see what all the ruckus was about you nabbed him right from our front porch. I heard all the rude things you said about him and “our kind” in general. Well all I’ve got to say is this. He’d better be safe. If you’ve harmed him in any way you’ll live to regret it – I’ll make sure of it. You see, our kind, we stick together. That’s right; there are more of us than just my brother and I… many more. And some of us are considering taking up residence elsewhere, if you know what I mean. Yes my friend, wrong us and The Brotherhood of Pinworms will stress you by day and haunt you by night. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Note: Nikki brought it to my attention that my post was unclear. My apologies. Bottom line (no pun intended) is this -- one of my kids has pinworms... yuck. And yes, I did see one squirming around you-know-where. There, I said it. Did you know their eggs can live up to three weeks on clothing and linens? And adults usually get infected by inhaling them when a sheet or something moves around? Now that's a happy thought -- breathing in a worm egg. That's going to be a real pain in the...

Dignity Lost

I have puke in my ear. I’m not proud of it. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even aware of it until a few minutes ago. Granted, I have two newborns and messes are to be expected. And yes, I knew my shirt was covered in multiple puke spots of varying wetness from crusty dry whitish ones to dark sopping squishy ones. Yes I had felt the unnerving warmth creep down onto my lap several times immediately following the sloshy verping sounds; and yes, I knew I downright stank of puke. But, I was hoping to maintain some small shred of dignity – an unsoiled bit of me that I could use to moor myself to the glorious illusion that I am yet the master of my own universe. However those hopes and dreams were forever crushed (again) when I found puke in my ear. Oh the indignity. Oh the horror. I’m melting. I’m melting. What a world. What a world. Puddle. Anyone need some ruby slippers?

By the way, did I mention that I am tired and delusional, or did you figure that out on your own?

Phraseology

My three-year-old just walked up to me and stated,

"Daddy, we eat dead fish."

Well, yes. But... ew.

Some things just shouldn't be said a certain way.

...OR...